Sunday, 24th June, 2007

Drama

london adventure

I'm finding it very difficult to type today. Not for the usual reasons though, but I'll come back to that...

I can never seem to have just a simple day/night out. Something always happens. Most people assume that this is because I always get stupidly drunk — which is half true, I guess — but things seem to happen to me when I'm sober as well.

I was stood in the queue at Sainsburys in Tooting, waiting to get some fags, when I (and everyone else in the queue) noticed that the old man at the front had his head in his hands, and was bending over.

"Are you OK?" asked the woman behind the till, and just as she did, he collapsed.

It's funny, that thing that kicks in in your brain that makes you do something in situations like that. No idea where it comes from, and no idea where it goes afterwards, but you can just suddenly find yourself rushing to help someone, without actually having made a conscious decision.

He had landed — rather fortunately — in pretty much the recovery position, so I just made sure I kept talking to him while we were waiting for an ambulance.

"What's you name mate?" I asked, recalling episodes of Casualty, and trying to fish my long-since-forgotten First Aid training out the back of my head.

"Barry"

"Hi Barry, I'm Graham. Do you know what might be wrong?"

"I've just had a triple heart bypass"

I was, I have to confess, shaking like a leaf. I was very aware of that, and wondered if anyone else had noticed that my cool air of control was hiding (badly) a very shakey disposition. When the staff and the first-aider had arrived, and the ambulance had been called, I made my way back to the queue. I was quite pleased that the assistants called me from the back to the front. Not because I thought I deserved it or anything, just because I really needed a cigarette.

...

I'm not going to write about SLUK just now, apart from saying that it was really nice to meet some people face to face (a) again, and (b) for the first time. And I owe SignpostMarv Martin an apology for bugging him during Philip's speach (inworld) — it was just that I had loads of people wanting to see and hear what was going on, and it was a bit embarassing that I couldn't get into the sim.

...

It was afterwards though, that the proper drama happened, and why I'm finding it so hard to type. True, I was absolutely drunk — the words "free bar" always seem to have that effect on me — I was so drunk in fact that I don't really remember exactly how I came to be staggering down a London street at five in the morning.

I vaguely remember it being light when we left the bar (although I might be mistaken), and I vaguely remember seeing the Gherkin, and thinking that I needed to walk away from it.

Although I'm not sure I quite understod where I needed to walk to.

I don't even remember what I had with me — whether I had my jacket or not for example. I now know that I didn't have my phone, because my Dad emailed me earlier to tell me he'd had a text from me telling me my phone is in the bar waiting for me.

All I remember is being very tired, very cold, and increasingly wet.

The whole thing is a blur really. I have a vauge memory of seeing a group of men walking towards me, and something — maybe their accents — suggested to me that they were German. But who knows?

What's important is that suddenly I felt fists smashing into my face, and my body. And then boots doing the same.

I tried to block them with my arm, which is probably why my wrist is the thing that hurst the most today (and why typing is hard — it's my right wrist), but the blows kept coming. It was only when I blacked out and collapsed, with the sight of a bus pulling up (and a lot of concerned-looking passengers) the last thing I saw, that they stopped and ran away.

I was only out for a second or two, and I'm not really sure exactly what happened. It's possible that I left everything in the bar earlier, and they took nothing — I guess I'll find that out later on — but I suddenly became aware that there was nothing except some keys in my pockets, that I had blood dripping from my mouth, my wrist was in agony, that I had no jacket, it was cold, and I hadn't a fucking clue where I was.

I don't really know my way around London that well. I sorta know vaguely where things are, and I figured I was walking towards Islington. My brother has a house there, and it's the only place I figured that was in walking distance and I knew the address.

He, obviously, isn't there at the moment, but I know his tenant's name, so I was planning on turning up at her door, telling her who I was (whilst apologising) and what had happened, hoping that she'd let me get warmed up and dry (and maybe sleep on the sofa for a bit).

I walked, and I walked, and I walked — all the time getting wetter and colder. Every corner I turned around looked familiar — then turned out not to be. I couldn't tell really from the maps in bus shelters where exactly I was, and where exactly I was heading.

I must have been walking for about four hours, when I finally got a fix on my bearings. The men had beaten me up at about five in the morning, and it was now nine, as I stood at the end of a road, looking down at the same bar I'd been in the night before, realising that I'd just walked in one massive circle.

I was, obviously, groggy from being punched and kicked in the head, but I wasn't pissed like I was earlier, and knew which way I needed to go. I also knew (now) how far I was away from Islington and (potential) sleep — bloody miles.

I think it was gone ten by the time I found myself standing at the door to my brother's house, rapping the door knocker, praying that someone was in. The more I knocked, the more the neighbours started twitching their curtains, and I'm sure I saw a few disapproving looks as I slumped — despairingly — in the doorway, realising that there was no-one home, and closed my eyes.

I didn't sleep, of course — it was too cold to sleep. I think I just blacked out for a few moments again or something. I knew though that I couldnt stay there, and tried to think of other people that might be home.

The only person I could think of, relatively near by, was Kei — and I knew she was home, because we'd left the bar at similar times last night. The trouble was, I'd been to K's a few times, but never really got my bearings properly (most of the times we've walked there, we've both been arseholed), so I wasn't exactly sure where she lived.

It was a miracle I found her place, actually. A journey comprised of staggering around squares and streets, trying to remember if things looked familiar, licking the rain off a few leaves (because my throat was parched, and I couldn't find a tap or a drinking fountain anywhere — ironic really, the insides of me were dehydrated, the ousides were drenched).

Suddenly though, things clicked into place. Streets and landmarks started to look familiar. Steps triggered a memory of key-fumbling at the end of some previous K And Siobhan Drunken Adventure™.

And there, on the top step, in complete glorious wonder, was a Lucky Strike fagend.

I know lots of people smoke Lucky Strikes, but most importantly, K smokes them. And the combination of the right kind of steps, the right curtains (which I'd worked out from recalling photos of her in her flat — who says vanity self-portraits on Flickr serve no purpose?), and this cigarette end meant that I had to be in the right place.

The next thing I knew, I was lying on her sofa, with a duvet placed over me, my body-heat starting to kick in and dry me out a little.

...

I'm now back at Ian and Kim's. I'm going to have a bath, try and get some more sleep maybe, and make a few phonecalls. I was supposed to be back in Lancaster by now, but I don't have the ticket any more. If (as I fear) they did take my wallet (which had all of five pounds in it), then I'm going to have to work out some way of replacing the ticket.

...

SLUK was a really good night — my nervousness was unfounded, and it was great (like I said) to meet people face-to-face.

I just could have done without the aftermath.

Those eggs were damm good. I don't know why though, but I'm having real difficultly swallowing things today. I think maybe the dehydration did something to my throat.

Or maybe it was all the cigarettes

Thanks guys — I'm OK, I'm in the capable hands of Ian and Kim. Kim's just made the most beautiful chicken soup I've ever had, and my throat's starting to feel better.

It seems I've got marks around my neck — like I've been strangled a bit, although I dont really remember that,